Lovers and Liars Page 15

  Her heart sank when she saw the director, Don Mascione, in a sheepskin jacket, trudging across the desert, head bowed to the frigid breeze, toward Ford’s RV. He saw her and lifted a gloved hand. Belinda watched him knock, thinking, So he is here. She ducked her head when the door to the trailer swung open. But a peek confirmed what she’d thought she’d glimpsed—the redhead. Mascione disappeared inside.

  “Coffee’s over there,” offered a friendly gaffer. “You look like you’re freezing.” He had his hands full with a drill and extension cords.

  “Thanks,” Belinda said as he marched past with a grin.

  She was halfway to the catering van when she heard her name. She turned to see Mascione on the steps of Ford’s RV, waving her over. Her insides twisted into knots. Head up, lady, she told herself, going over, her booted feet crunching on sand and pebbles. The worst that can happen is you eat dirt and get canned.

  “We wanna make a few changes in the first scene,” Mascione said. “Hey, honey, you need a coat.”

  Belinda managed a grimace that was supposed to be a smile. She couldn’t reply. She couldn’t even remember what the first scene was—and she knew this script inside out.

  She stepped inside, not at all surprised by the plush suede couches, the heavy wood desk, the wet bar, and kitchen. At the same time that she realized she was clutching the script, Belinda realized that he wasn’t there. She started to relax.

  “The way I wanna do it,” Mascione said, “is with more emphasis on the action, ya know? Less words and more impact—until the end of the scene. So we just need to cut out a few lines up until Ryder says, ‘We’re not friends, Derek—and we never have been friends,’ et cetera.”

  Belinda focused. Mascione sounded like an idiot, but supposedly he was talented and maybe he had a point. Then a door opened and she whirled around. Her own wide, startled gaze met Ford’s.

  “Have you met the writer yet, Jack? Belinda—uh—”

  “Belinda Carlisle,” she said, using her professional name.

  “Yeah, Belinda here’s the writer; and this”—Mascione grinned and smacked Ford’s stiff, unyielding shoulder—“this is the star.”

  Ford wasn’t smiling and he wasn’t moving. In fact, he was so still he could have been made of stone. After the initial expression of surprise, there was nothing, nothing at all. Belinda took a deep breath. “We’ve already met—sort of.”

  Ford didn’t say anything. But the corners of his mouth had lifted slightly, maybe in a smile, more likely in a grimace. His nostrils were flared. He turned his back on her—rudely and obviously. “What do you have in mind, Don?”

  “She’s gonna cut a few lines. More action, more subtlety, until you say ‘Derek, we’ve never been friends,’ et cetera. Then it’ll hit real hard, ya know? Their relationship. I like it.”

  Ford nodded, opening his script.

  What a fuck, Belinda thought, furious that he would treat her as if she weren’t even in the room. She slowly took off her jeans jacket. She didn’t have to look at him to know that his gaze had done an Olympic sprint to her person. She was wearing a tight red turtleneck sweater—braless. Her jeans were a second skin, tucked into her favorite navy snakeskin cowboy boots. She sat down slowly, crossed her legs lazily, swung a foot, and opened the script. She placed the end of the pen in her mouth and nibbled it.

  Jack stared. Belinda was perversely pleased to have his undivided attention but forced her focus to change. Quickly she made the decisions on what to edit out and began slashing the lines.

  “Hold it!” Jack ordered. “Just what are you cutting?”

  Belinda paused and looked up. Then she ignored him and turned to Mascione. “How many lines do you want me to cut?”

  “Eight to ten. But it’s still gotta be a coherent whole, honey.”

  Belinda nodded and scanned the scene, then glanced back up. “It’s done.”

  “Just like that?” Ford lifted a brow. Sarcasm laced his tone. He reached down without so much as a May I? and took the script out of her hand. Furious, Belinda bit down hard on a response. He perused the pages, his own jaw tense, a muscle jumping visibly. Then he lifted his green gaze slowly to hers.

  Here it comes, Belinda thought. The nuclear war.

  He rolled the script up and tossed it onto her lap; it fell against her crotch. The rolled-up script suddenly seemed very phallic, and Belinda wondered if he’d delivered it that way on purpose—and when she met his gaze, knew he had. The sexual challenge was unmistakable. And undeniable. It was cool in the RV, but that wasn’t why her nipples were hard.

  His gaze drifted over her with deliberate insolence. He said, “It’s satisfactory.”

  Two could play the crotch-staring game. “Umm,” Belinda murmured with a glance at his groin.

  Ford slammed into the bedroom. “Call me at nine.”

  Belinda leaned back and closed her eyes. She realized her heart was thudding crazily. What a prick.

  No pun intended.

  42

  Security had thrown her out.

  Mary was furious.

  She had walked into the building, no problem. Taken the elevator to the top floor, no problem. The receptionist had looked at her as if she were a pile of shit. And queried in a cool tone, “Do you have an appointment?”

  Mary had said, “No, but—”

  The receptionist had informed her that she would have to leave. Mary refused and strode aggressively past the woman. Only to realize she had no idea which way to go. She guessed and went right.

  And that was when two huge men from security had thrown her out.

  Mary did a line, then hurried back to the front of the building, parked herself on a bench. She would wait all goddamn day if she had to. All day.

  And she nearly did. An hour passed, then a few more before he finally came out.

  Abe Glassman.

  Now he was coming down the steps of the building, broad-shouldered, tall, expensive-looking, moving toward the waiting silver limo. This was it. Now or never. If anyone could stop Bitch Belinda, it was this man. Her marriage and her life depended on it. She raced toward him to cut him off.

  She was wearing skintight jeans (she must have gained a pound or two) and a knit top that clung to her voluptuous breasts. Her long hair streamed out behind her. He saw her and grinned, his eyes on her bouncing breasts. He stopped to watch appreciatively.

  Dirty old man, she thought. “Mr. Glassman, wait, wait!”

  He was surprised; then his grin broadened. “Do I know you?”

  Mary was thrown off stride. His gaze was hot, and for an old guy he was really something. “It’s your daughter. We have to talk about Belinda.” Desperation edged her voice.

  “About Belinda?” he said, looking at her face carefully. Then he grinned again. “Perfect timing, wouldn’t you say?” He said it to no one in particular. “Let me give you a ride.”

  She couldn’t believe her luck, or how nice he was. Bitchy secretaries! The driver was holding the door open, trying not to look at her, or rather, at various parts of her anatomy, and Mary climbed in. Abe followed. The door shut. Mary bit her lip, clasped her hands, and looked at him.

  His warm gaze was caressing her openly. It made her nervous; it made her start to tingle. The knit had rubbed her nipples into erectness, and she was very aware of them and how he kept looking at them. He’s attracted to me, she thought, and it was heady indeed. This man was one of the most powerful men in the country—and he was fucking her with his eyes.

  “You are …?”

  “Mary. Spazzio. Mary Spazzio.”

  “What can I do for you?” he said as the limo pulled away.

  “Your daughter …”—she hesitated for a breath—“is having an affair with my husband.”

  “And your husband is …?”

  “Vince Spazzio. He’s a carpenter, a foreman for Joe Butler, a GC.”

  “That’s very interesting, Mary.” He pressed a button. A panel slid open in front of them, revealing a bar
. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes.”

  In silence he poured her a glass of white wine and himself a beer. He looked at her again with that hot black gaze. He grinned. “Foolish Vince.”

  She blushed. “Can’t you—”

  “Can’t I what?”

  “Stop her? He’s only a carpenter. She’s rich. It’s just a diversion for her—but it’s ruining my marriage.”

  “I probably could,” he said, grinning again and sipping his beer. “But why should I?”

  She felt panic. “Please. I mean, your daughter is an heiress. You don’t … what if they get married?”

  He laughed. “They won’t. You have to give me a better reason for stopping them.”

  Mary looked away out the window, in consternation. Then she felt his hand on her midthigh, and almost dropped her wine. She looked at him as he was leaning closer. “Make me want to stop them,” he said softly, huskily.

  She shot a look at his groin. The old buzzard had an erection, and from the look of it, it was big. A wonderful warmth filled with wetness and fear shot along her, racing to the pit of her groin. She couldn’t. Could she?

  “I don’t do anything for nothing,” he said, sliding his hand up the top of her thigh, pausing, his fingers splayed and almost reaching her crotch. It was swelling.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

  He chuckled. “You have a body like none I’ve ever seen,” he said; and his hand went up to her breast. Mary closed her eyes and leaned her head back as he started kneading the soft, lush flesh.

  “Make me happy, Mary,” he said, “and I will gladly take care of your little problem.”

  She opened her eyes. His fingers were strutting across her nipple, and her underwear was soaked. To her shock, she was incredibly turned on. She wanted, desperately, this old man. This powerful, rich man. Not so old—and randy as a goat.

  He lifted her top, baring both huge breasts. He buried his face between them. He nuzzled. Then he took one hard, pointed nipple in his mouth and began to suck.

  Mary reached down to touch him. A long, throbbing length of flesh, rock-hard. Incredible, she thought, at his age.

  “Yes,” he encouraged her. “Oh, yes, doll, take it out, touch it.” He unzipped his trousers; it sprang against her hand. She grabbed him, exploring the hard, hot length.

  He pulled her down, rubbing the glistening head of his erection over one nipple, then the other. Mary thought she might have an orgasm before he even entered her. She fumbled with her jeans, opening them, while he rubbed himself over her breasts, between them, thrusting against her mouth. Then he yanked at her jeans, and they peeled away like a wrapper.

  “Oh, baby,” he said, grabbing her buttocks and spreading her legs with his knees. One of her feet found the floor for balance, and she had a crazy thought. What about the driver? Could he see?

  But it didn’t matter. He entered her, big and hard, Abe Glassman, one of the richest, most powerful men in the country. She came.

  A huge earth-shattering orgasm.

  43

  Rick leaned against the tree in the parking lot. He was standing a few yards from a sparkling, gleaming red Porsche. It belonged to Froth, and it was spanking new. The way the sun was casting shadows, he was nearly invisible. Unconsciously he rubbed his tender abdomen.

  He heard Patty’s laughter first. She and Froth were walking hand in hand toward the Porsche. School had let out at least forty minutes ago—Rick idly wondered what they’d been doing. He imaginai Patty in Froth’s arms, French-kissing, her voluptuous body straining against him, Froth with one hand kneading her breast. He shoved the image away grimly.

  Behind them he could make out Dale and Patty’s girlfriend. Rick watched them approach out of narrowed eyes.

  Froth had opened the car door, and both girls had just climbed into the back. Dale was standing by the car’s rear bumper, waiting. Rick burst out of the shadows, grabbed Froth by the shoulder, spun him around, and kicked him right in the balls.

  Froth went down with a howl.

  Dale came forward to meet him with an aggressive right hook. Rick ducked, grinning like a madman, and popped up, landing a solid blow to Dale’s jaw. Dale’s head snapped back, and he was momentarily off balance. Rick swung again, connecting with Dale’s soft belly. As he doubled over, Rick kneed him in the face. Dale crumbled. Rick kicked him once for good measure in the ribs, hard enough to bruise but not to break. He wasn’t crazy. He had learned long ago that if you fight, don’t turn your back until you’re positive your enemy is down and out. Rick relaxed. He was positive both Froth and Dale were exactly that.

  Froth was groaning and clutching himself on the ground, and he twisted to look at him, his face deathly white. “You’ll be sorry!”

  Rick smiled. “Don’t you ever fuck with me again,” he warned.

  Patty had climbed out of the car, now that the fight was over, and she knelt beside Froth. She looked up at Rick, her expression confused. Rick glared at her with contempt and turned and strode away.

  He wouldn’t think about tomorrow.

  Froth had a whole school full of allies.

  He had no one.

  But he wasn’t a coward, and he never had been. He would fight until they killed him.

  44

  “We’re not friends, Derek—and we never have been.”

  An absolute silence descended over the saguaro-studded set, not even broken by a bird’s trilling. Ford stood rigid and strained and grim, eyes dark, warning—the perfect hero, Belinda had to admit. Mascione yelled, “That’s it! Fucking fantastic! Print!” Belinda also had to admit that Ford was playing Ryder perfectly. At least in this one scene.

  He hadn’t looked at her once since that morning, and it was almost one o’clock.

  What was she—invisible?

  The sun was high now, and true to the desert’s extremes of climate, the day was warm and springlike. Belinda had shed her jacket hours ago and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. She watched Ford striding toward his RV, Mascione trotting alongside, blabbing away at a mile a minute. The two of them disappeared into the trailer.

  For the first time that day Belinda found herself able to relax. She could feel the tension—emotional, physical, sexual—draining from her body. And she had to face it: She was in deep water. Ford was only going to be on the set for two weeks, then they would all break for the holidays. But it was going to be a long two weeks unless she could get her reactions to him under control.

  Under control?

  Just how in hell did one control an inferno?

  And the worst of it was, it was one-sided. Other than the fact that his ego was sorely wounded, he didn’t give a damn whether she was there or not. No, Belinda corrected herself, he was attracted to her—somewhat. If she shoved it in front of his face. It’s better this way, she told herself, the tension, anger-laced, rising again. The last thing I need is to wind up in the star’s bed. Remember Nancy. Think about your career. I mean, don’t I have enough problems?

  “Hey, Belinda,” the assistant to the assistant director said. “The King has called.”

  Belinda, about to purchase a sandwich, went stiff. “Excuse me?”

  “You are summoned to the King’s court.” The assistant grinned. She was a lesbian and one of the few females on the set impervious to Ford’s appeal. Now she was pointing at his RV.

  “Mascione wants me?” Her throat was dry.

  “Uh-uh.” The assistant to the assistant shook her head. “He wants you.”

  Belinda stared at the RV.

  Mascione had left.

  Jack’s gut was tight, cramped. And his body, well, his body was alive, pulsating with awareness. It had been that way all day—since the moment she had entered his RV that morning.

  She was the fucking writer.

  He couldn’t goddamn believe it.

  She was the writer. She was a screenwriter. A Hollywood screenwriter. That meant she had to know who he was�
�she had to have known who he was at the North-Star party. Back then she had been playing a game. She was playing a game now. Who in hell did she think she was?

  Jack ripped off his shirt, balled it, and threw it in a corner. Where the hell was she? He’d told Mascione’s assistant’s assistant twenty minutes ago that he wanted to see her. Who in hell did she think she was?

  Strutting around in that tight, tight sweater with that great pair of tits, in those tight, tight jeans with that high, round ass, long, strong legs, legs perfect for fucking, for wrapping around a man’s hips … He was getting a hard-on.

  He had told the assistant to the assistant that he had some dialogue to discuss with her. Right. The script was open and waiting on the table. He wanted her open and waiting, legs spread, pussy glistening, for him. It was hot now, and he began shoving open windows. He relished the physical release. If he wasn’t careful, he’d break a window.

  Shit. She was doing it deliberately. Teasing, leading him on—he knew a come-on when he saw it. Just as she’d done it at the Majoriis party. Was that how she got her kicks? Getting a guy all fired up with no place to go?

  She was a screwed-up broad.

  She was impossibly sexy.

  There was only one good thing about this entire setup. Her being here had fueled his performance like never before. Never had he been so good, so intense. His acting was taking on new dimensions, new depth. For her. Jesus Christ, he was performing for her. Because the entire time he was out there, on his mark, he knew, he knew, she was out there, too, watching him. He didn’t have to look at her to know it. He could feel it.

  I’d like to perform for her, all right, he thought grimly. In bed.

  She knocked.

  Jack hesitated but only for a fraction of a second. Every muscle in his body was tight and wired. He opened the door. The expression in his eyes when he opened it was derisive—and mostly meant for himself.